Poor lady, she were better love a dream.
Disguise, I see, thou art a wickedness,
Wherein the pregnant enemy does much.
How easy is it for [the] [proper-false]
In women's waxen hearts to set their forms!
Alas, [our] frailty is the cause, not we!
For such as we are [made of, such] we be.
How will this fadge? my master loves her dearly;
And I, poor [monster], fond [as much on him;]
And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me.